


Barely Breathing

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 03:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18930652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: Set during S11 "Snatch Game at Sea." Brock survives the lip sync but the anxiety hits him after and he has a panic attack. José helps him.





	Barely Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this for a long time and here it finally is! Feedback is always welcome!

He’s dying. 

He survived the Snatch Game, survived the lip sync, and yet it doesn’t matter because he is going to die right here in the hotel room. 

Brock had ignored his anxiety, pushed it out of his mind to do the best lip sync he possibly could. He should have known it would come back. Should have known he couldn’t run from it or fight it forever. He could feel it humming beneath the surface on the van ride, a deep-sea predator swirling through the ocean and stalking its prey, just waiting to attack.

He’d gotten back to his hotel room, mind buzzing with thoughts of his future in the competition, not noticing how it was getting harder to breathe until he dropped to the bathroom floor, unable to hold himself up. He couldn’t fight it again. It was here and it was going to kill him. 

He’s still on the cool tile floor, knees up to his chest, back pressed against the bathtub. His mind speeds through a million thoughts a minute. _You’re a horrible person. You’re a failure and everyone knows it. You don’t deserve to be here. You’re not good enough and you never will be._ He can’t stop shaking and his body doesn’t feel like it’s his own anymore. His eyes sting as a mixture of sweat and tears runs down his face. His stomach is ready to rebel and Brock just prays he won’t throw up because he can’t get out of this position and over to the toilet. His heart thumps so loud he thinks the others across the hall can probably hear it, so fast he thinks it may run out of his body entirely. He imagines his heart bursting out of his chest, like in a horror movie, and knows he’s losing his mind. Brock gasps for air, trying to calm his pounding heart and racing mind, only to find that his body no longer knows how to breathe. 

He’s dying, plain and simple. 

He’s wondering what will kill him first--a heart attack or lack of oxygen--when out of the corner of his blurry vision, he realizes that someone is in the bathroom with him.

“Oh, baby,” the person says, and Brock barely makes out the soft voice. 

“Hey,” the voice says quietly. “Is it okay if I sit next to you?”

The person is close enough for his tear-filled eyes to recognize that it’s José, and even though he’s still trembling and his breath comes in frantic, wheezing, gasps, some deep part of his mind registers that he is safe now. It takes Brock a few seconds to process the question and he doesn’t have the air to answer, can’t get his mouth to form words. He nods instead, the first time his body has done what he’s wanted it to since he got back here.

“Okay, I’m gonna sit now,” José replies, and Brock’s panting slows as the younger man lowers himself onto the bathroom tile.

“Can I hold your hand?” José asks.

Brock gives a single nod, wondering if he’ll ever be able to speak again. 

José’s soft, warm hand wraps gently around his own. Maybe it’s the warmth, or just the simple touch, but Brock starts to feel a little more solid, a little more like he’s part of his own body again. 

“It’s okay, Brock. You’re gonna be okay, I promise. You want to try a deep breath with me? In and out real slow. Just like me, baby,” José encourages, taking in a big breath, counting to 4 on his fingers as he holds it, then releasing slowly. “You think you can do that, Brock?”

 _It seems so easy,_ Brock thinks. _It’s_ breathing, _for fuck’s sake. It’s_ supposed _to be easy._ A small groan escapes his lips. _What kind of a failure doesn’t know how to breathe? José’s trying to help you and you can’t even do what he’s asking and now he’s gonna think you’re crazy_ and _stupid._ Giant tentacles have wrapped themselves around his chest, squeezing him, the pain so intense he’s surprised his ribcage hasn’t cracked, and the air just can’t get in. His heart takes off again, so loud in his ears that he can’t even hear José anymore. Brock is miles underwater, unable to hear or see above the surface as the monster pulls him lower and lower, drowning as he tries to claw his way out of the deep. He opens his mouth to take in air but fears an open mouth will be the invitation his stomach needs to release its contents, and he _really_ hates puking, and all he has to do is breathe but he can’t he can’t he _can’t_ -

There is increased pressure on his hand, the sensation tearing his mind from its fear and giving him something concrete to focus on. “It’s okay, Brock, it’s okay,” José soothes. “You’re safe, I’m right here with you. I got you. Nice and slow, whenever you’re ready.” 

Brock regains some control of his body and grips Jose’s hand tightly, anchoring him to reality. Despite the panic crushing him, Brock finds himself believing José, soothed by his even tone and trusting the younger man’s assurances that he’ll be okay. _You can do it. Nice and slow._ He takes a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut with the effort and letting out an involuntary whimper. Cold sweat tickles the back of his neck and he thinks he might pass out, but he can hear José’s steady voice counting to 4 and telling him what a good job he’s doing. Brock ignores the darker side of him asking why a grown man needs the encouragement you reserve for getting three-year-olds to eat broccoli to do something as simple as breathing. Slowly, slowly, he tunes out his mind and focuses only on José’s calm voice and the warmth of his hand. 

He has no idea how long they’re on that bathroom floor, Brock struggling with each breath as José counts for him. It feels like hours later when Brock can breathe without straining himself. His heart is no longer pulsing in his ears, his stomach settled enough that he no longer fears throwing up. He remains still, eyes closed, breathing under control, as the panic fades and he begins to feel safe again. 

He opens his eyes slowly, like he’s waking up in the fallout of an explosion, about to fully see the damage around him that he’d been oblivious to. He blinks until his vision is no longer blurred, and for the first time gets a clear view of José’s concern and love for him. 

“You feeling any better? Want some water?”

He nods again, still doubtful of his ability to speak. 

José releases Brock’s sweaty hand and stands up at the sink. He eases back down with a paper cup and Brock’s lips are begging for the water, but he hesitates. The full-body shakes have passed but his hands are still quivering and he knows he won’t be able to hold the cup. José seems to work through this at the same time and brings the cup to Brock’s lips for him. 

He takes slow sips of the water, the coolness of the liquid and the normal act of drinking water another thing grounding him, bringing him back to the world. 

José takes the cup back when he’s done. “Do you want to get up? Or do you want to stay here for now? Your call, baby.”

“B-bed,” Brock manages in a hoarse voice, the first word he’s spoken since they left the work room. 

“Okay. I’ll help you up,” José says, taking Brock’s hands. 

Feeling like he’s about to plunge off a mile-high diving board, Brock unsticks his sweaty back from the tub and hauls himself up onto rubber legs that would have dropped him back on his ass if it wasn’t for José’s arms darting in to catch him. 

He snakes an arm around Brock’s waist and Brock lowers an arm around José’s shoulders. The ten feet from the bathroom to the bed might as well be Mount Everest for how cautiously they walk. 

Brock collapses back onto the bed, absolutely exhausted. The anxiety, the worrying, and the overthinking have been part of him for as long as he can remember, and he’s had some mild panic attacks over the years. But never anything this bad. It’s like he just fought an entire war by himself. 

“You’re okay with me next to you?” the younger man asks, standing on the other side of the bed. 

“Ye-yes,” Brock confirms, and José gingerly lays himself on his side next to the taller man, facing him with loving eyes.

It’s like a veil has been lifted from him. The voices in his head have retreated for the moment and Brock’s senses are returning. He can see the boring colors of the hotel room again, hear distant cars outside, feel José next to him. It’s like waking from a coma, or returning to Earth after a trip to space, or surfacing after being underwater. Everything seems brighter and more in-focus. He’s even beginning to think properly again, despite the exhaustion running through him. Now that his mind is a little clearer, he wonders what sort of luck drove José here when he needed him the most. “What...what made you c-come see me?” Brock asks curiously. 

“I just had a feeling, I guess. You’ve been so stressed the past few days and you seemed a little off when we came back here. I figured I’d check on you. I actually knocked and called your name for like a minute. You didn’t answer me and I didn’t know if something had happened, so I begged the guy at the desk downstairs for a key to get in. And there you were... ” he trails off, not bothering to finish. 

“I-I didn’t hear you,” Brock whispers fearfully. The fact that he was so out of it he couldn’t even hear his own name being called terrifies him. He doesn’t even know how long he was on the floor before José arrived. He’d probably still be there if it wasn’t for him. 

“Once I came in and saw you, I kinda figured you didn’t. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to help you. You...you were in really bad shape,” José admits. “It must have been awful,” he adds, looking sympathetically at Brock. 

Brock nods. “I’ve had them before. S-small ones. Nothing like that, though. I came back here and started thinking about the challenge and how awful I was, and then I started worrying about tomorrow and how hard it’s gonna be to get back in it after this, and it got out of control but I just couldn’t stop it. Next thing I knew, I was on the bathroom floor. I couldn’t breathe...I honestly thought I was gonna die. It-It’s never been that bad before,” Brock explains. All the talking further steals his already drained energy, though he does feel relieved sharing it all with Jose, lifting some of the burden from him. “Thank you,” he continues, “for taking care of me. I wouldn’t have gotten through that without you.” 

“You don’t have to thank me, Brock. I’m glad I could help you,” he replies, quiet and gentle. Now that Brock thinks of it, José has been unnaturally quiet and calm since he got here, so unlike his usual self, all to help Brock through the panic attack. It’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for him, and his heart fills with appreciation and love for José. He’s never felt this way about another person, didn’t even think he _could_ feel this way. Even in the deepest pits of his panic and anxiety, some part of him had held on to José like an anchor, like a lifeline, trusting the younger man even when Brock was trapped in his own mind. Brock’s never met anyone who makes him feel as safe and as loved as José does, and Brock doesn’t ever want to lose him. 

“Still,” Brock insists. “You didn’t even have to check on me in the first place, but you did. You’re so special, José, and I love you so much. So much.” There are no words to thank him for being Brock’s lifeboat tonight, no way to truly repay him. But Brock just hopes José will always know how much he loves him, how much José means to him. 

“I love you too, baby. And I know your head is gonna tell you otherwise, but you’re not a terrible person. You just messed up a little. Doesn’t make you a failure. And girl, that lip sync is going down in herstory. You’re an amazing performer, and an even more amazing person,” José says, taking Brock’s hand again. It makes Brock feel protected and whole, even now, when the panic has passed. And he believes José’s words. _This mistake does not make you a failure._ He knows this isn’t the end of his anxiety, that the voices will return, that he most likely will have another panic attack at some point. But for now, José and his love are enough.

“You okay? You got all quiet,” José asks, concern clear in his voice. 

Brock nods. “Just tired.” He’s also a little sore, probably from how hard he pushed himself in the lip sync. 

“Anything else I can do for you?” 

Brock wants to hold on to this safety and peacefulness all night and thinks of how desperately he wants José to stay with him. “Can-can you-” Brock starts and stops himself. He’s being selfish. He can’t risk getting José in trouble just because he wants someone to sleep with tonight. 

“What is it?” José asks, shooting a concerned look at Brock.

“No, never mind, I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Brock, really, what is it? I’ll do whatever you need, I don’t care about the trouble,” José’s tone is serious and completely genuine, and Brock knows what he says is true. 

“Could you stay with me? It-it doesn’t have to be all night,” he quickly adds. “But for a little while, maybe?” 

“Of course,” he replies simply. “I’ll stay as long as you need. I always will, baby.” 

“D-do you want to be the big spoon?” Brock asks shyly. He kicks off his shoes and turns so his back faces José.

“You mean do I want to hang on to you like a backpack? Hell yeah, I do,” José laughs and presses his chest against Brock’s back, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Sleep, baby. I got you. You’re safe,” José whispers in his ear. 

Nestled against José’s warmth, today’s disaster and the night’s anxiety seem like a lifetime ago. Brock focuses on their intertwined bodies, their gentle breathing. He’s safe. 

He sleeps.


End file.
